heorte | when i go towards you it is with my whole life.

"Can you tell me some of them?" feels like inviting trouble, and yet. "Or would that give me an unfair advantage, when you do decide to torment me?"

"It would," she is swift to confirm. But— "However, as you've been so studious a teacher this afternoon, I suppose I can afford it as a demonstration of my gratitude. That seems only fair. But you must close your eyes, because if you look at me I'll feel too guilty and be unable to recite any of it. Agreed?"

Beside him, Wysteria shifts up a little higher on her elbows in anticipation of some recitation of ills she has until this point courteously held back.

His fingers travel slowly down her jawline as Ellis studies her, a pause that could be mistaken for hesitation when instead it's a moment to take in her face, her expression, the way Wysteria looks when she has something in mind to say, consider how appealing it is and mark that knowledge.

Then his hand returns to fold both over his belly. He closes his eyes, turning his head up towards the sky, as if to ward against the possibility of a single peek.

It's a fine show. She even waits a beat longer to give it the credit she deserves before unfolding her torture's toolkit.

"For example, I think I should ask you for a list of your favorite things. Colors and your favorite book and seasons and what is your favorite place in Kirkwall and so on. This of course is to slowly acquaint you with the concept of giving your opinion on things. And then, once your guard was sufficiently down, I would ask after your ambitions and what you would like to do once the war is over or for you to tell me some story of thing you are most proud of doing."

She doesn't watch his face as she speaks. Instead, she allows herself to shift a little beside him, her attention drifting to his folded hands. Eventually, she moves to touch them, fingertips idly wandering along his wrist and the back of his topmost hand.

"Or I would ask after more or your scars, or that you would tell me what the mark on your chest is and where you acquired it, or attempt to satisfy any number of curiosities. Or I might make some very poor attempts to compliment and see how long you could bear it before you argued. Or—"

There is dirt under her fingernails from touching the pond's bottom. She notices it for the first time as she lightly traces the shape of his hands.

"Or I might only lay here and needle you with the facts that we are alone and I can think of nothing at all that might cause me to be frightened of you."

Had Wysteria been looking, she'd have noticed the furrow in his brow reappearing somewhere in the course of her recitation. His fingers twitch slightly when she touches his hand, then relax. He stays quiet afterwards, giving her opportunity to continue as much as taking a moment to consider what she's said, let the initial prickling of discomfort recede.

His hands move before he speaks, palm turning up under her fingers.

"So I should count myself very lucky that you're so merciful," Ellis tells her quietly, looking back to her in the same moment his eyes open to focus back on her face. Maybe she's not asking him now, but she will ask all of those things eventually. He understands that, even if he hasn't yet decided exactly what he'll do when, or if she does.

"Yes." She brushes her fingertips down the length of his palm. It's a gentle touch. "That is more or less the shape of it, Mister Ellis.

She lifts her eyes from the shape of his hands then and looks at him. Searching out, perhaps, that studious wrinkle.

"I hope I haven't overwhelmed you too much by revealing it."

"No, you haven't."

And that is seemingly all he has to say. His hand remains relaxed under the sweep of her fingers, eyes intent on her expression. When he moves, it's a slow upward arch, their hands undisturbed as Ellis leans up, kisses her very softly rather than try to condense what's in his head into a coherent statement.

It's a very sweet thing, she thinks distantly—strangely analytical despite how willing, ready even, she is for that exceedingly gentle kiss. She has been so relentless with him, and he in turn has been so gentle and measured. It's strange to think that between the two of them, it's Ellis who asks for delicacy. Enforces it. Requires it, even.

(His kiss is so soft. The tenderness of it makes her heart ache in her chest.)

"Ellis—" is a tentative thing against his mouth. Like a question, but not. She forces herself to say the thing she's thinking. "I said you might kiss me how you liked because I wanted you to."

"Aye," comes slowly, questioning, very close for a moment longer before Ellis draws back. His expression is searching, weighing the question up as his head sinks back to the saddlebag.

A handful of questions come to mind, a muddled mix of queries that Ellis sets aside. I wanted you to holds a different weight than the rest. It nudges up against conversations they've had before, the caution embedded in everything Ellis does. He doesn't think she is asking in objection to the way he's kissing her.

"I know," is more prompt than answer, seeking what's behind her reminder as his fingers close overs hers.

I know, he says, and she waits—lingering there tucked in close beside him, hovering and expectant and uncertain in that way that someone entering an unfamiliar dark room with no light in their possession might be.

She recognizes, belatedly, some anxious racing of her heart. The feeling of foolishness suddenly gripping her, because what is she implying? A delayed flush creeps up her neck for it and when she shifts, it's toward withdrawing her hand and in the direction of pushing herself upright.

"Good. I'm pleased you do."

"Don't go," comes immediately. His hand tightens on hers, then loosens without fully letting go of her, as his mind catches up with the kneejerk need to keep her held close to him. Ellis has never wanted to hold her anywhere she would rather not be. If he holds onto her, it can never be too tightly for her to shake him off.

"Stay," is a quieter entreaty, as Ellis turns in towards her, as if to follow her all the way upright. He thinks to say, I'm sorry without fully grasping what he might be apologizing for, and so keeps the sentiment to himself. What he says instead—

"Talk to me. That's the bargain we struck, isn't it?"

Not exactly, but it feels close enough that Ellis might invoke Wysteria's reassurances in this moment.

It is near enough to the thing to prompt her to hesitate, withdraw stuttering to a pause.

—And there flickers broad and embarased, searching for something to supply him with. It's good that he turns after her. That he asks her to stay, even. But.

"I can't. It's very ridiculous."

"I'm sure it isn't."

A statement made very firmly, meant to stave off objection.

"I can close my eyes, if you like," carries some quiet, warm humor along with it, but Ellis' expression is so intent that it diminishes the effect. A second, murmured entreaty follows, "Please stay."

The loose grasp of his hand squeezes once, silent punctuation to the request.

Please stay has such a lovely sound to it. In combination with the rest—the encouraging squeeze of his fingers—, it is enough to turn her hesitant pause into a hesitant wait. She hovers in that space, the one which lives between settling and withdrawing completely. And because he asked her to, she struggles to find the right words as the heat in her neck chases into her ears and cheeks.

"It's just—" is a little agonizing to say. And so with each word, she slips closer to a clumsy whisper. "I don't really know what to ask after. Just that there is something and—"

She is looking at his neck instead of his face. The shape of that terrible scar is a simple one to study. "It is a little like a dance, I think? Only I don't know it well enough to lead you in it. And I wish to rely on you. That's all."

In all their acquaintance, Ellis can't be certain he's ever heard her express uncertainty in this exact way. It's not the type of thing to be met with humor. He still has the sense Wysteria is one wrong movement away from getting to her feet and vanishing into the shrubbery with dress and sundry in hand.

It requires an answer, something spoken aloud. Ellis comes to that conclusion after as

"I understand," is an easy, true thing.

Another true thing: whatever she asks of him, he can do nothing but grant her. There are so few exceptions to that rule, and Ellis finds this is not one of them.

It's still gentle, regardless, when he reaches up to cup her cheek. He's kept hold of her hand, fingers linked with hers as he waits for her to look at him, for some kind of unspoken permission before he leans back up to her.

She looks to him almost immediately in reply to the quiet shape of his hand on her cheek. Mortification—not for the subject, but for the ignorance; if she is reliably troubled by anything, it is not knowing—is one thing, but of all people Ellis has hardly ever treated her ill for it. Were he someone else, she might not meet his eye so readily. But she was being honest when she had said she trusted him. Admitting to being quite stupid requires a great deal of it.

"I suppose you usually do," she says, hand fidgeting in his grip.

And then her spare hand folds up from the ground, intercepting whatever his intentions might be so she might cover her eyes with dislodging his hand. Her laugh is a sudden thing, short and like the pouring out of held nervous energy she no longer has use for. Laughing at herself.

"Gods, how wretchedly serious. Forgive me."

The answering curve of a smile is all there is for a moment. It's a relief for him, in a way. The bright peal of laughter loosens the tight cinch of nervousness that had built in his own chest, settles the worry that he'd said too little to be a comfort to her.

"There's nothing to forgive."

Which is said very seriously, in spite of the lingering smile.

"I'm glad to know," is lighter somehow, Ellis' voice softening as he shifts up onto one elbow. Her face hidden leaves him with limited places to put his hands, so his hand drifts to her waist. "Come here, please?"

"Oh very well." Her hand is still over her eyes, that flurry feeling of ridiculousness light in her chest emphasized by the soft set of his fingers at her side. "Though I truly don't know where you find so much patience, Mister Ellis. It really is quite remarkable."

With some effort, Wysteria removes her hand from over her eyes and for a moment (a very small one; the span of a heartbeat or maybe less) simply regards him. Then with a great roll of the eyes for herself, she allows herself to shift down to meet him there on the clover in the warm sunshine.

The freed hand is caught, brought back to Ellis' mouth. He might have kissed her properly, but he devotes his attention to her knuckles instead, the trace of ink over her index finger that survived the ride, pond and emerge unscathed from the brief brush of Ellis' mouth. When he speaks, it's more or less against her skin, gaze cast down.

"I'm going to tell you something," he says, fingers of his opposite hand absently pressing lightly at her waist. "Even if you think you know everything, you still learn it all again with someone new."

Is this truth, or is it simply because Shanae and Cathán had been so different from each, and Ellis had been nearly a different person with each of them?

"And you're a faster learner than me," he reminds her. An undisputable truth, surely. But some of the humor softens as he looks at her, promises, "We'll make sense of the steps together."

She listens, study all intent and fixed on him—his face and the warmth of his breath against her knuckles, and his sturdy shape beside her. And when it comes her scoff is a manufactured, mild thing.

"Has anyone ever said how intolerably dashing you are? I imagine it must be very off putting to some people."

But not to her. The much is clear from the flush in her face and the sharp of fondness in her expression. It is, as far as promises go, a rather good one.

Richard's voice comes to him, dipping over the word noble.

Instead of trying to thread the line between deflection and protest, Ellis draws her hand down to the clover between them. He takes more care with the interlacing of their fingers than he might need to, settling the hold before he looks up at her.

The expression on Wysteria's face registers the same as if she were to put her hand on a bruise and apply pressure. It aches. He feels the thudding register of it in his chest.

When Ellis thinks of the first time he'd kissed her, the impression of how tightly she'd been holding onto his hand sticks in his mind. When Ellis kisses her now, it's his hand tightening in hers, hanging on to steady himself. It's a counterpoint to how open his kiss is, intent still mingled with careful restraint.

Somewhere, a long way away—worlds and worlds removed, in fact—a nervous woman who has spent a great deal of her mental energy being very concerned for her headstrong daughter's sense of propriety sense a disturbance in the atmosphere. Maybe somewhere, the Wysteria who is still in Kalvad laboring under what constitutes as tutelage from a man who has known only bitterness and contempt will receive a letter because of it. To My Darling Daughter—I was reading the attached passage this morning and all at once was reminded again of all my concern for you. Please write soon with every detail of your well being. Best wishes—

Maybe that does happen, in which case it would be very interesting to study its significance in terms of the relationship between Thedas and the places where rifters come from. At the very least, it would make an excellent footnote for any essay on the Fade as a conductor and manifester of thoughts and dreams into the physical plane. But happily, for it would distract from this moment, Wysteria is not actually thinking at all about something as silly as what her mother would say.

In fact it might be said she is thinking about very little at all, which is a singularly rare circumstance. Even the detail of the thing—the tight grasp of Ellis' fingers about hers and his hand careful at her waist and even the rasp of his beard and the sweet smell of the crushed clover—merge pleasantly together as the affection which lives warm in her chest rises and expands in answer to the sense of his resolution.

Like dancing, she'd said. She certainly treats it as such, following in his shadow. Her spare hand finds his neck and her fingers are gentle and careful about pushing up into his hair. But the shape of his kiss is answered in kind, warm and willing.

Something Ellis might have said to her: anytime he kisses her is enough for him.

There doesn't need to be anything else. There's no urgency in the way he kisses her, no broader intent than the easy, yielding nature of their kiss. Wysteria puts her hand in his hair and Ellis makes a soft sound into her mouth for it, absently encouraging.

As they continue, Ellis' body turns in towards her almost without any consideration of it, hand flexing at the dip of her waist over and over. The tunic is flimsy compared to the layers and rigid fabric of her usual attire, all the warmth of her skin banked beneath his palm. When he moves, it's so, so slowly, but the shift is necessary. It's necessary to hold her a little closer, to slide his hand up her back and draw her in to him. She is already quite close, and yet—

Even still, within the muddied tangle of resolution and encouragement and all else thudding through his chest, Ellis breaks first, again. His breath comes fast, nose bumping hers as he sets his forehead to hers, tries to gather himself. He has the same sensation as if he'd fallen from a height, trying to gather his bearings upon impact. It's not an entirely new sensation when it comes to Wysteria.

His hand is very tight in hers.

His hand is very tight in hers, and he has drawn her very close. Not flush, but near enough to it that the space which remains feels like something weighted. It's like something she could hold if both her hands were free. But they're occupied already and when he breaks back she is disinclined to retrieve her hands from him too.

His breath comes very hard. She can feel Ellis' pulse in his neck.

With her mouth tender from the shape of his kiss, she touches his neck and this his jaw and cheek. It's soothing thing--instinctive like stroking a nervous horse's shoulder without much thought as to why it seems so necessary to do.

"There, there," is a little soothing murmur in that narrow space. Her thumb strokes his cheek. She watches him from up close, so near this he is reduced to his cheek and his eyelashes and the wrinkle of his brow. "Tell me what you're thinking."

(How does it feel? Like a beetle in a cup.)

A breathless, huff of a laugh first, before Ellis says anything else.

"Of you," might be mistaken for calculation and charm, if Ellis were a different sort of man. But it's a raw, quiet thing, said into what little space remains between them while Ellis is thinking more of her mouth and her hands and the solicitous little touches she bestows, traveling from his neck to his cheek. "Always of you, and how much I..."

The shape of the thing doesn't resolve into words. Not yet. Or he knows the words, but they catch and snare on some jagged edge in his chest. He draws a breath, gives a slight, minute shake of his head.

"How lucky I am," comes easier, no less true for being easy to say. His hand splays across her back, between the wings of her shoulder blades, stopping short of drawing her in and closing that last slip of space between them.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject